A Young Man's Guide to Late Capitalism (34 page)

She questioned Evo for almost an hour without pause. Gabriel, vigilant of the time, didn't exactly listen—he leaned forward with a thoughtful expression on his face, nodding once in a while, and directing his gaze at whichever one of them happened to be talking. Meanwhile, he silently ran through the questions and problems he'd encountered. His thinking was circular, and like all circular thinking it served mainly to elucidate the particulars of the situation rather than illuminate a solution.

A clock somewhere chimed the quarter hours, sonorously, helpfully. After he heard a third chime, he knew that his mother would pass the questions to him soon. And although she expected him to ask about ecotourism, solar power, or some other featherweight issue, he'd have to ask questions about natural gas, the same ones that had been vexing him since he'd arrived in La Paz. It was unfortunate, but it had to be done.

The conversation between Evo and his mother had probably been quite interesting. From what he heard, she had pressed Evo on a few issues. There were predictable queries about coca production, and whether Evo would grant proper representation to the wealthy and politically/ geographically isolated people in gas-rich jungles, and about a slew of items that meant nothing to Gabriel. As he sat and circled through his thoughts again, he began wondering what would happen with Lenka in the long run. Even if she didn't burst into the room now, she still might do something. Would she have him barred from the party tomorrow? He thought it likely. Even if she didn't attempt anything else, she'd do that, he guessed. Or maybe not?

"Gabriel, that was your concern, right?" he mother was saying now, gazing at him. She was finally punting the ball in his direction, and he'd completely lost track of their conversation.

"You mean the solar—" He looked at his mother questioningly.

"And
ecotourism,
right?" she said, her face reddening.

"Yes, those are both my questions, in a way. Ecotourism and solar power. I guess the question behind those questions is about the sustainability of Bolivia's fiscal situation, because those plans, you know, are fiscally difficult. All of those other issues are subordinate to that question. So I know you have great plans, but how can you finance those plans if you don't nationalize the gas?"

Evo shrugged. "I will nationalize the gas, I have been saying—"

"No, no, I know—I know you will, but when and how will you do it?"

Gabriel's mother was staring at him now, surprised by the questions. Alarmed by the seriousness of his line, perhaps. He couldn't help her with that.

"I gather that the rumor is out already," Evo said.

"I heard it this morning, something about May first—is it true?"

"You can't write this—neither of you can—because I will not officially announce my plan until then, but we are letting the companies know now."

"You're going to break the contracts and make them renegotiate?" Gabriel said.

"Well—yes, those contracts were signed by an administration that was a puppet of the United States government."

"I know," Gabriel said, if only to cut short the train of thought before it got moving. "And you're going to give the companies until the end of the year?"

Evo shot a look at Gabriel: not quite affronted, but not so benign either. He was surprised that Gabriel knew so many of the details. Maybe that aspect hadn't been leaked yet. Gabriel's mother gave him a similar look—he could feel it torching the side of his face.

Eventually, Evo nodded. Gabriel sat back in his chair and took a deep breath; he glanced at his mother, then back at Evo. He was done there now.

The silence didn't last long. Evo's unnamed assistant pointed out that Mr. Morales had something else scheduled in five minutes. Gabriel's mother flipped to a new page in her notebook. "So I—um—do I have time for one more question?" she said.

"Of course," Evo said. He looked as before: as if he were mildly upset about something but wouldn't do anything about it. His face was unlined but weary, his expression was limpid. She asked her question. He blinked once or twice, thinking, and then replied. This was a nuisance for him. Already, he was thinking about the rest of his day.

Outside, Gabriel resisted the overwhelming urge to light up a cigarette. His mother was upset and he had to deal with that, and then he had to deal with all of the other, more urgent, problems ahead of him. They walked into the center of the plaza. He could feel her staring at him. He could feel an argument taking shape in her head, but he didn't know where she'd take it. He stopped and turned to face her by the lamppost where Villarroel had been hanged.

"What was that about?" she said.

"What do you mean?" Playing stupid was an easy if not especially effective defense with her. It bought him time, at least.

"I thought you wanted to know about environmental subsidies or something. I thought you were going to ask about ecotourism."

"I was—in a way. I was wondering if he's going to be able to pay for such things."

"I didn't hear you ask about his interest in the projects. I just heard you ask about his fiscal situation."

"It's the same thing, Mom."

"No, Gabriel, it's not the same thing." She switched to Spanish, saying, "And where is this Lenka woman? I thought she'd be here. I was looking forward to meeting her. Are we going to see her and her mother this afternoon?"

"I don't know." He was in Spanish too now. Lenka had invited them over in last night's text message. But if she'd intentionally told him that lie, she might tell his mother the truth. She might tell anyone. Or not quite anyone—she wouldn't want Evo to know the truth, which might have been why she skipped the meeting. "I think we've broken up," he said.

"Oh," she said and her face softened. "I'm sorry to hear that." She switched gears as best she could at that velocity. "What—um—what can I do?"

"You can't do anything. I'm sorry. Thanks for offering. But we shouldn't go and see her or her family. Look, can I meet you later? We'll get a nice dinner at this place I've heard of that's near your hotel. It's called La Comédie. It'll be great. I've had a horrible day, Mom, and I've still got a dozen stressful appointments ahead. I just need a few hours. Is that okay?"

"I leave tomorrow."

"I know. I'm sorry, Mom, but I told you that I'm very busy here."

"
Busy?
"

"Yes. Busy."

"BellSouth? Or, wait, you're a freelance journalist? Or, no, maybe you're working for an investment firm in California? Are you still living in New York, Gabriel? Or have you moved to Palo Alto? When was the last time you were at their office in California? Why are you not telling me—"

He shook his head and waved his hands at her—it was way too much. "I have to go, right now. I have an urgent telephone meeting. We can talk about all this later, but I just don't have time now. This is too important. I'm sorry. I'll pick you up at seven."

"How much of what you've told me is true?"

He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. "I have to go. I love you." He walked briskly away from her and didn't look back. There were a million things he could have said to soften it, but he didn't have the time.

He turned the corner and headed toward Gloria, trying to organize his next steps. He had to communicate with all of the people he had supposedly misled before. He'd have to explain that he had been more or less right after all. It would be a more awkward, if considerably less stressful, task than it would have been if things had gone according to plan and he had lied to them successfully. His mother would remain furious for a while, but he could make amends that night at dinner. He'd make jokes and play the rascal. She'd get over it. She had no choice.

Priya was first. He called her by the time he made it to Potosí. "False alarm," he said as he crossed the street at the courthouse. A bus ground its gears as it churned up a nearby hill. A child inside gawked at the bandages on Gabriel's face.

"Good," Priya said. It was the response that he'd hoped for.

"The specifics are slightly different from what I'd heard," he continued.

"How so?"

"It turns out he's not going to begin the process until the first of May, but it's going to be an open secret until then. From May until the end of the year, companies will be invited to 'renegotiate' their contracts with Bolivia."

"
Invited?
Ha! As in 'We'd like to invite you to get twenty percent instead of eighty'?"

"That's the idea. Except I think it's seventeen percent."

"And if they refuse to go along with the new plan, they're out of the deal altogether?"

"Right."

"Well, that's that," she said. "Thank you."

He waited, but she said nothing else. So he said, "That's it?"

"Yes, that's it. You're done there."

"Just like that?"

"Yup. You're done. And you did surprisingly well, Gabriel. It paid off. I hadn't expected anything to come of this, but we did well this morning and it was a terrible morning otherwise, so we owe it to you. You earned your bonus, at any rate. What was it? Two fifty?"

"My salary is two thirty-four."

"Two thirty-four. I'll let Anne know. Bonuses are delivered the second week in January."

"Second week in January," he repeated.

"Do you have an accountant?"

"No," he said. "Should I?"

"Yes. You'll need to file quarterly. Most of us use a Norwegian named Life, of all things. Odd guy, but he's very astute, very meticulous. I'll refer you if you're interested."

"I am, I guess." When she'd mentioned referring him to her accountant, Gabriel apprehended that he'd truly passed whatever test she had had in mind for him. From now on, he would be viewed differently by her. He was inside now.

She said, "So, you'll return tomorrow?"

"No. I have some things to tie up here." No need to mention his mother, much less Lenka. "I'll fly back on Friday." He turned the corner at Potosí.

"Fine. Once you get home, take a long shower and replenish the mothballs in your closet, haul the junk mail out to your recycling bin. Treat yourself to some good food and get a massage. I know a fantastic masseur named Ofir. Jordanian, hands like an orangutan. He does house calls. I can give him your name."

"Right. Okay, thanks. I might need that, I don't know. I'll think about it." He was approaching Gloria now.

"Good. In the meantime, you should start looking into Telavisa. Have you heard of it?"

"No. Is that with an
a?
" he asked. He stopped walking, took out his pen and pad, flipped to a new page, and set the pad against the wall of a nearby building.

"Yes, with an
a,
" she said. He jotted it down on his steno pad. "It's Colombian," she continued. "Media production and distribution. Television, radio, and film, and some print, but only in Colombia. It's family owned, for now. They're headquartered in Cartagena. Have you ever been to Cartagena?"

"I've never been to Colombia." He put the pen back in his jacket pocket.

"Cartagena is supposed to be a very pleasant city. Oscar's been a few times. He'll recommend a hotel."

"Right," he said. He continued walking. "Fine."

"I'll see you soon," she said.

"I'll be in the office on Saturday," he said, and then hung up.

He called Fiona next and told her the same information: his rumor was true, but he'd been a little off in the specifics.

"You sound disappointed," she said.

"I am, slightly," he admitted.

"Why?"

"I'd rather not explain. It's been an awful day. My mother's here."

"Eek."

"Yeah. She thinks I'm working for Big Thunder. It was the only workable lie."

"Double eek."

"Yeah, I know."

"It's kind of yucky too, I must say."

"Yeah, I know that. But you're the only one who knows everything." This hadn't occurred to him until he said it aloud—that Fiona, finally, was his most trusted confidante. "I have something else for you," he said. "I don't know if you care, but the next finance minister of Bolivia is currently a professor of economics at the Universidad Mayor de San Andrés named Luis Alberto Arce Catacora. He speaks English fluently, eagerly; he earned a master's degree at University of Warwick in the late eighties, and he seems pretty sensible, all in all. Will probably break in the next forty-eight hours, but I thought you might find it useful."

"Wow, Gabriel. You realize that you're giving me your leftovers, don't you?"

"It's all I have."

"I know, and it's sweet of you."

"I'm a saint."

She laughed and laughed at that, and he listened for a long time.

A bellhop opened the door for him, and he entered the lobby and then paused there to call Edmund at
IBI.
He told him as well. Standing in the lobby and speaking as quietly as possible without whispering, he explained that he'd been slightly wrong about the specifics. "Sorry about that."

"No problem at all," Edmund said. "It was a great tip. Thanks."

"My pleasure," he said. "I have to go. I'll talk to you later." He hung up.

He was in front of the elevator doors, listening to the squeaking pulley inside, when he spotted the hotel manager, Dorotea, by the desk.

Looking at her, he put it together at last. He understood what had happened and why Lenka had done it. The morning he'd deposited Lenka in the elevator with Alejo, Alejo had told her about the day after Christmas, when Fiona had exited Gabriel's room at dawn. Could it be that simple? Was Lenka that jealous? Of course it was that simple, and of course it wasn't
just
that she was jealous. That one cardinal deceit had, for her, opened up an array of possible subsidiary deceits. Maybe Gabriel was CIA after all. Certainly he was just gaming them all, to her mind. She found out about his infidelity and it didn't mean what infidelity normally meant—that he was narcissistic and/or sexually greedy—it meant that he was an utterly diabolical double agent. He was just using her for information. It had probably taken all of her willpower for her to contain herself the morning they'd met at Café los Presidentes Ahorcados.